


Fair

by edka88



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edka88/pseuds/edka88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is the time for cheerful amusements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair

The fragrant steam of dinner filled the kitchen, shading the windows with a thick layer of vapor.

Winter had arrived a couple of days before, but for now it was only the biting cold that signaled the arrival of the festive season – without snow the weather was just something to be admired from inside.

And so Céline was currently keeping Christine company, chatting merrily behind her as Christine made the final touches of their meal: sprinkling some salt into the soup she replaced the lid on the pan, turning to peal a couple of potatoes as Céline continued with her unending observations.

"Odette wants to be a ballerina," she announced. Odette was one of Céline's best friends. "She has already started studying to be one. Can I be a ballerina, too? Like you, Mama."

"If you'd like," Christine answered, taking a brief look at the boiling meal in the pot.

"Last week she also tried skating. She said it was fun," Céline announced, then stopped for the briefest moment while Christine reached for the next potato. "Can I go skating, too?" She asked then.

"We'll see, sweetheart," Christine replied without turning around.

"I want to know how to skate, too." From behind, Christine heard the familiar rattle of colored pencils, being spread out on the kitchen table. "Or we could see the fair. Violet went there with her parents and she saw amazing things." Céline continued, stressing 'amazing' just slightly more than the other words and Christine had to stifle a smile. "Can I see the fair, then?"

Behind her there was a crash, followed shortly by the sound of something clashing against the tiles of the kitchen floor.

At the sickening sound Christine whirled around.

Erik stood right behind the table, the remnants of a broken glass still clasped within his hand while shreds of it covered the floor in front of him. He was staring at the opposite wall, though; even as blood was quickly suffusing his palm, gathering into one huge, scarlet drop at the bottom.

"Erik."

He didn't answer her.

"Erik," she repeated a bit louder.

He finally snapped out of his stupor with a wince. Then looked down at the debris at his feet. Then slowly up again, but his eyes were strangely unfocused and Christine's heart leapt to her throat.

Resting the spoon on the edge of the pan, she walked up to him.

"Love, you're bleeding," she reminded him softly. He blinked at her as if he only saw her now, then his sight dropped to his injured hand.

"Yes. Yes, I am." Reaching out with is other hand he caught the flow of blood by holding his palm under it. Then looked down at the shards at their feet again. "I'll clear it up in a minute," he told her quietly, then turned and left the room.

She stood unmoving, staring after him with a lump in her throat.

"What's wrong with Papa?" Came Céline's uncertain voice from behind her and Christine slowly turned around: the face of her daughter was drawn with confusion.

Something serious.

"He's cut his palm, you see," she told Céline. Her daughter's eyes were intent on her face and Christine's heart fell. Please don't be scared. As a child, Christine used to be frightened beyond reason when she saw grown-ups injured – it rarely happened to them and the unusual nature of an accident was strangely unnerving. And it was more than enough to have to worry about only one of her loved one's well-being.

"Just like you did," she managed to tell Céline in the end, brushing a comforting caress down on her daughter's face. "You remember?"

"Yes," came Céline's wary reply. "I cried."

"Yes, well… he's not crying but still, it hurts him. I'll go and help him."

"I can help him," Céline offered happily.

"I think it would be better if you stayed here, sweetheart." At Céline's disheartened expression, she added, "I may have to pick some shreds from the cut, you know."

Christine escorted Céline to the table, looking around in a frenzy for any kind distraction for her daughter that would possibly keep her entertained in the next few minutes. The latest edition of a fashion magazine lay on top of the rack. "Here you are," she handed it to Céline, who meanwhile took a seat at the table. "Please don't touch anything until I come back."

"May I draw into it?" Céline asked, already immersed in the colorful journal and Christine let out a soft sigh of relief.

"Of course, dear." With a kiss to Céline's forehead, Christine left the kitchen.

She caught up with Erik in the parlor, where he was awkwardly trying to roll up the sleeve of his shirt with just one hand while on his way to the bathroom. She followed him and shut the door behind the two of them.

"Christine, go back," he said wearily, holding the palm of his uninjured hand under the other to catch the flow of blood until he reached the sink. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are," she replied while turning the tap, and he stuck his hand under the running water. From the corner of her eyes she saw how he shuddered as water seeped into the wound and a cold wave ran down on her back.

He kept his hand there until she quickly rummaged through the contents on the cabinet, setting out bandages, antiseptic and tweezers on the edge of the basin, just in case. When it was done, she turned off the tap.

"Let me see it," she asked him.

"I can take care of myself," he protested but his voice was soft and…almost pleading. Her heart gave a painful tug.

"I know," she agreed. "But I don't want you to."

At her words he obliged finally, holding out his hand to her. The wound was still oozing blood – but at least the cut was not as bad as she expected.

It was something that had to do with the fair, obviously, though what exactly upset him so was impossible to guess. It had never been a secret that he had been held captive for years – after all what happened he saw no reason to keep anything from her – but this was still a bit murky part of his life. No doubt he would have told her anything she wanted to know if only she had asked – but she didn't want to remind him of those horrid times. And so the details remained hidden and she suspected that it was for the better.

How ironic, then, that they resurfaced in such a sudden manner.

He stood motionless all the while she examined the gash, looking for possible splinters in it; only the occasional tremors belied his pretended composure.

"Do you feel any shards in it?" She asked him, wiping his palm with a towel.

"No." His voice was so quiet that she had to strain her ears to hear him at all.

She stole a glance in his eyes then: he had been looking at her but as soon as he noticed her sight on him he looked away.

She let out a sigh that she hoped was unnoticeable and reached for the antiseptic and a clean cloth.

"Give me that," he murmured, taking the cloth from her hand. She doused it with the colorless liquid and pried it from his fingers afterward.

The room was strangely quiet around them, only the soft rustle of her clothes breaking the silence every now and then. Her stomach quivered even in that anxious knot it was squeezed into for long minutes.

It seemed so thoughtless now to assume that the past could be left behind.

Meanwhile she neared the edge of the cut and tried to ghost over it without applying too much pressure or stinging liquid on it. It was now that he finally decided to speak, without having to ask her why she was there. Had it not been for the unsettling circumstances, it would have been a warming gesture.

"I was at her age," he revealed gravely, heaving on a breath. "Only a couple of months out of home. Still learning how to live on my own." He trailed off, and she felt the weight of his sight on her fingers as they traced the wound. "I just wanted to see for myself what all that fuss was about."

A cold grip settled around her stomach and she swallowed uneasily. It was not at all unexpected to hear another gruesome detail of that time, but this… She was well aware that he had run away from home at some point in his life but... Céline was only six now…

"I didn't know you were so young," she blurted out finally, trying to stop the starting quivers in her hands.

"It was decades ago," he told her softly, holding one end of the gauze roll until she secured it around his hand. "It shouldn't matter."

His tone carried a barely noticeable edge as he spoke the words, as if he was talking more to himself that to her.

"You cannot blame yourself for remembering still." He stared back at her with an unnamable expression in his eyes – something that was disturbingly close to disbelief, and her heart gave a stinging tug. "You were but a child."

"I should have known better!" The words almost too harsh and he stole an apologetic glance up to her eyes. "My own mother detested me because of this face – I should have known it would stir... interest... anywhere I went."

"But it wasn't your fault."

Again, he said nothing; instead let his hand slip from her grasp slowly. As his arm fell back to his side it gave an almost imperceptible twitch and she shuddered with a cold wave.

"I don't want you to punish yourself any longer." Her voice wavered with every word but it didn't really matter now. He wasn't even looking at her but the swirl of emotions around him was impossible to miss. "It wouldn't change anything."

He gave a short, bitter laugh at her words. "I know. It never really did."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because being angry at myself is less humiliating than pity," he snapped and she had to swallow back the quickly welling up tears.

"How about forgiveness?" She offered. "Yourself, of course."

He didn't answer her but glanced up into her eyes still – she was met with the well-known sight of shame written all over his face and she shuddered with the intensity of it. He could be furious, frantic even; but this damning, unrestrained hatred was usually aimed at himself.

"Is there anything else?" She asked cautiously.

He shook his head. "The rest you already know. I killed him in the end and I don't regret it."

"And I don't blame you." Shakily, she reached out toward his hand and some of the weight lifted from her stomach when he gave it to her.

Neither of them spoke for a long while, both of them staring at their clasped hands; after a few moments his thumb brushed a light caress across the back of hand and she tightened her hold on his fingers in return. A single ray of light coming from the window glistened on their rings.

At last, it was him who broke the silence.

"Christine, don't tell her." He didn't even try to hide the pleading in his tone. "She knows about everything else; I don't want her to know about this one, too."

Her dry throat made it impossible to utter a word so she just nodded a couple of times. "I won't," she choked at last.

The surrounding tension never loosened a bit and the turmoil of the previous moments still hung in the air. After a long, strenuous moment she didn't want to hold back any longer: she took a step closer to him and wrapped her arms around his taut frame. His arms came to return her hold in a heartbeat.

A whole minute passed while they stood there unmoving and without any word.

"Christine, I'm fine now," he murmured into her hair when she stroked a hesitant caress down on his back.

"I know."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I know."

His uninjured hand slowly crept up on her back and came to rest in her curls and she melted into his comfortingly familiar hold. "You pity me now, don't you?"

"I don't know yet," she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

Briefly his hold tightened around her before he drew back, but kept his arms folded around her waist still.

"Well, don't. It wouldn't change a thing. And I don't want you to be unhappy because of me."

She wiped at her face inelegantly, then his fingers followed the path of hers, brushing away the remnants of her tears that escaped her care. "And I don't want you to think you deserved it. Detesting yourself wouldn't make it sound any less ignominious."

His head moved in agreement but he didn't say a word. And never took his eyes off of her fingers that grasped at his hand.

"I love you, Erik. And the thought of you being weak has never crossed my mind."

At her words, his grip on her fingers tightened momentarily, then his eyes lifted from their clasped hands to meet hers.

"I love you, too," he rasped before he leant forward to brush her lips with a grateful yet yearning kiss. She returned it immediately, and when her fingertips carded through the soft hair at his nape he melted against her completely.

And finally she could breathe without that heavy weight sitting on her stomach.

Minutes passed until they pulled apart at last, then he rested his face against her temple.

Waves of warm air brushed against her skin when he spoke a moment later. "I still don't want to see her anywhere near that damned place."

"She won't be on her own," she told him gently. "I'll go with her."

His whole body tensed at her words. "No."

She swallowed at his outright refusal. Well. It was only to be expected. He would hardly let her wander on a place that he deemed far too dangerous for Céline. And however irrational his fear might have seemed – she didn't blame him.

"I'll offer her something else," she said, pulling back from him with a short caress on his back. "Going skating, perhaps. She would like that."

He was silent for a short while; and even though he wasn't looking at her she sensed the various emotions swirling within him. Even the air around him seemed to flicker with the nervous energy. Letting go of her hand he moved to the side and took a few steps to the other direction, then suddenly turned back and stopped right in front of her.

"I don't want her to be left out of anything because of me," he told her breathlessly. "If she wants to go the fair, we'll go to the fair."

\- o -

Candlelight glistened on the small glass ornaments and the faint scent of the tree was still present in the air. Waves of heat steadily warmed her right side from the fireplace, the flames coloring her husband's hair with an orange shade as he rested his head on her stomach. The salon transformed into a huge playground of some sort during the evening, and now various toys were left around in blissful disarray, even beside the plates on the table – right next to the tray of cookies. A tiny clearing was made on the carpet, however, when the two of them reclined in front of the hearth; her head on an oversized pillow – and her husband's head pillowed on her stomach.

Céline was peacefully asleep upstairs, exhausted from all the excitement of the day.

Christine raked her fingers through her husband's hair, then let the caress continue down on his neck and shoulders, finally stopping on his chest. He covered her hand with his own, and the two of them returned to peaceful tranquility.

"I'm not sure I can move from here anytime soon," he told her after a short while.

"Me neither," she replied, a smile forming on her lips at the pleasant feeling of his fingers caressing her palm. "Let's sleep here."

He stole a brief glance at her. "I hoped to…"

She swept a light touch across his fingers. "I'm way too tired for that," she said apologetically.

He let out a sigh before answering, "Yes. Me too."

Slowly a smile spread out on her lips and he mirrored the gesture, too; then a moment later they burst out in a short laughter in the exact same moment.

"I love you, Christine," he said, adjusting his hold on her hand. "Have I told you that recently?"

"Not in the last two hours," she smiled, drawing her palm lightly along his upper arm. "And I love you, too."

"And I'm the proudest of husbands because of that." A log fell apart in the fireplace and his eyes shone exceptionally bright in the flaring up flame. "You're smart. Caring. Talented. And extremely beautiful." He twisted a little to look up her, and though his eyes held a serious look there was no trace of doubt or guilt in them; and his tone was simple, too, just stating the obvious. "You could have had anyone – even better than him."

"I could tell you why you're far above any of those men – but I believe you wouldn't want to hear me praising you." Her tone was half-teasing and half-serious, prepared to hear at least some mild protest from him.

Yet all he asked a moment later was, "Why?"

Her relief quickly turned into a smile. "You're caring. Devoted. A genius." She skimmed the ring on his finger with her thumb. "And a surprisingly patient father."

She felt the touch of his lips on the back of her hand, then swiftly he moved until he was stretched out beside her, his arm draped carefully across her. His eyes held a gentle, almost doubtful emotion, but before he could express any kind of disagreement she added, "And I'm so proud that I can call myself your wife."

As soon as she finished his lips descended upon hers in a passionate kiss; he pulled her closer by the waist before his fingers splayed out on her back in a protective hold, and she gladly allowed him to take the lead while she rested her palms on his back. A warm shiver ran through her frame at the feel of his muscles shifting with his every movement.

The visit to the fair didn't exactly progressed as she – and he as well – expected it. As it turned out it was a relatively plain spectacular; poor even, compared to the accepted standard in such places, perhaps, and so there were no exceptionally disturbing sights of cruelly exposed freaks or anything else that she so feared. There were, however, the usual amusements and attractions. Some of them Céline enjoyed immensely, like the exotic animals and the acrobats, but as soon as they reached the fire-eater she asked Erik to pick her up; then hid her face in his neck when she saw the sword-swallower.

They left the fair immediately – or rather, as soon as Christine managed to dissuade Erik from tearing down the whole damn place.

On the way home they bought some sweets for Céline, but it was rather what followed afterward that comforted her finally. When they got home Céline asked him if he wanted to play with her outside for a short while – as it had snowed a little in the last few days – and of course, Erik agreed. Christine was invited, too, and so the afternoon was spent outside with all sorts of amusements that they could think of in the snow.

It was liberating. As expected, Erik was less than excited to visit the fair but at the same time, he flatly refused to elude the burdensome situation. Never once did he show any kind of displeasure to Céline, though; but Christine couldn't help but notice the end of the familiar rope peeking out of his sleeve as he put on his coat as they left for the fair today.

He never carried it in Céline's presence.

Yet, even if the sight broke her heart Christine decided to refrain from voicing any of her concerns.

"Thank you for today," she told him when they broke apart after long minutes.

He drew a long caress down on her cheek with his thumb. "It was… not as I expected. Easier. With you there."

Her heart swelled with immeasurable warmth at his words and she pulled him back down, kissing him with unrestrained passion of gratitude and love. He responded with the same enthusiasm and it took another long while until they parted finally.

"Want to go upstairs?" She wheezed, already sure about his answer.

"Uh-hm," he hummed, pressing a kiss to her lips.

That night, she noticed not even a trace of insecurity left in his demeanor.


End file.
